A prosperous, self-reliant man, well built, well dressed and well pleased with himself, sat at a desk in his private office. It was the senior partner of the firm—a well known firm of Fifth Avenue jewelers. Being a wise man, he was wise enough to enjoy a reasonable pride in his own wisdom; also in his own pleasing personality, and in his own good face and figure. Now, sixty years of age, he had, moreover, enjoyed a quarter century of success—the reward, perhaps, of his own foresight in being the son of a prosperous father. He had inherited a well established business. As a leading member of a fashionable church he was grateful to himself, and to his Creator, for these, his many blessings.

Another well-dressed man—but younger than himself—entered abruptly and stood beside his desk. The Senior Partner looked up from his work, nodded, and smiled.

"Good morning, William."

"Good morning, Uncle Fred."

William was dapper, even more up-to-date in appearance than his uncle. Although more carefully attired, he was not so well dressed. For William's hair was so very smooth, and all that pertained to him so aggressively fresh and clean, his clothes so faultlessly in fit, his cravat, his scarf pin, his hair and his eyes such a pleasing harmony in shade and color as to divert the beholder's attention from his sensible face. In appearance William was unjust to himself, giving the impression, to strangers, of a vain or frivolous person. He was, on the contrary, a very intelligent man. Also, he was good. At the present moment there were signs of suppressed excitement in this cleanest of clean faces.

"Well," said the Senior Partner, "out with it."

"You remember Cyrus Alton, don't you, Uncle Fred?"

"No."

"Well, you met him some years ago. It was he who saved me from breaking my neck in the amateur circus at school."

"Oh! And he has regretted it ever since?"

William smiled. "No, sir. I hope not. But it was a mighty plucky thing to do. I fell from the trapeze and he was on the ground beneath. When he saw me coming, instead of jumping from under, like a sensible boy, he held out his arm to break the fall. It threw his shoulder out of joint, but saved me a broken neck—so we all thought."

"Yes, I remember now. It was a plucky thing. It showed courage and presence of mind. How old was he?"

"About my age: twelve, I guess, or thirteen."

"He certainly played the hero on that day. Has he lived up to it?"

"I don't know. I have hardly seen him since we left school. I always liked him. We were great cronies—always together."

"Mighty lucky you were together on that occasion. What's his occupation, now?"

"Oh, chemistry and electricity. Science generally, I guess. But I don't think the world has been treating him well. His clothes are kind of ancient, and he looks hard up. He lives up in Massachusetts, in some little town or village. It's a dozen years since I have seen him, until he came in, a few minutes ago, with a curious kind of stone. He doesn't know what it is, and wants to find out. Wants us to tell him. It's beyond me, though. Would you mind seeing him just a minute, and looking at it?"

"A stone, did you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"What kind of a stone?"

"That's just what he doesn't know, nor I either."

"All right, show him in."

To the hero of the amateur circus came a cordial greeting from the Senior Partner, who alluded in a most friendly manner to that historic occasion. But were he not familiar with the story he would have found difficulty in recognizing the present visitor as the hero of such a day. For that was a deed requiring—to say nothing of courage—quick decision, quick action and that perfect confidence in physical strength which we attribute to the trained athlete. These wide-awake qualities were not suggested in any degree by the slow moving, sleepy eyed young man of slender figure to whom Hurry seemed a stranger. This man was a dreamer. But the Senior Partner had perhaps forgotten that the brightest pages of human history have been furnished by dreamers stirred to action. Moreover, it was clearly evident that this young man and Prosperity were not on friendly terms. And the dark color beneath his eyes seemed to indicate loss of sleep or nervous strain. Now the Senior Partner had never been in love with Poverty. He had the same sort of sympathy for it that Virtue has for Vice; or that Cleanliness has for Dirt. But he was determined, on William's account, to treat his old friend with proper consideration.

After a short conversation, retrospective and educational, the visitor laid in the hand of the Senior Partner what appeared to be a large glass door-knob. It was octagonal in shape with a convex top, and was broken at the stem. The color was a pale, apple green. The Senior Partner adjusted his glasses and politely examined it. He examined it with the same tactful consideration he would show to any well meaning person who believes his imitation pearl a priceless gem. This case, however, was certainly unusual. The man who could hand you a very large glass door knob and ask your opinion on it, as an expert in gems, required special treatment. And when the Senior Partner studied the visitor's face for some outward indications of the amazing credulity within, he searched in vain. Instead of the eager eyes and parted lips of a touch-and-go enthusiast hoping for sudden wealth, he encountered a firm, though boyish mouth, and two calm, dark, almost drowsy eyes that met his own with a tranquil sanity, having no relation, apparently, to their owner's misguided errand. However, the Senior Partner knew from experience that exteriors were deceptive.

While hesitating for words that might reveal, in the gentlest manner, the fact that the object was worthless, his nephew spoke, and in a tone of eager curiosity.

"What is it, Uncle Fred? What can it be?"

"That's hard to say. It is rather large for a door knob, or the stopper of any human decanter. It might be the pendant of a chandelier."

"I mean what is it made of? What is the material?"

"You mean what kind of glass?"

"Yes, sir; if it—if it is glass."

"Then you think it is not glass?"

"That's what we want to find out."

This uncle was not misled by his nephew's earnestness. He knew William, and he knew him to be a ready believer in interesting things; one who could pin his faith on whatever he really wished to believe. And the uncle had learned that this capacity, combined with a lively imagination, became a perilous guide in matters of business. However, he held the object higher, between his eyes and the window.

"You think it might be rock crystal?" Then, turning to the visitor, "What is your own opinion, Mr. Alton?"

"Oh, I have no opinion; only hopes."

"And what are your hopes?"

Now Cyrus Alton had easily divined the Senior Partner's thoughts. "Hope is so inexpensive," he answered, "that I have been indulging in the brightest kind. But if I am flying too high I can easily come to earth again. Is it nothing but glass, after all?"

"Oh, I don't say that."

But the Senior Partner still marveled that any educated person should prove so gullible as to be deceived by this object in his hand. He looked again, and more carefully, at the visitor's face. This time the boyish mouth seemed to indicate nothing but inexperience. The heavy lidded eyes, however, calmly returned the searching gaze, as if they themselves were searching;—yet in a sleepy way, it seemed to the Senior Partner. And the Senior Partner was strengthened in his conviction that a man with those eyes and with such a mouth could believe almost anything. Yet he liked the young man's face. His voice was pleasant, and his manner of speech, while punctiliously polite and considerate of others, indicated decision and self-reliance.

"But, Uncle Fred," said William, "it is so heavy for its size. And it's cold, like a diamond. And it has that oily feeling on the polished face. It surely is not an artificial stone."

"No, possibly not. But the color, this pale, apple green, while an exquisite tint, is not usual in diamonds."

"But the famous 'Dresden' is that color, isn't it?"

"Yes, I believe so; but the famous 'Dresden' is smaller than a paving stone. This object, as you see, if a natural stone, must have been nearly twice its present dimensions before cutting. And even now it is fully twice the size of any diamond of which we have ever heard. You young gentlemen will admit that it must be the house of an exceedingly prosperous person where bulky door knobs were composed of single diamonds."

Nephew William frowned and drummed with his fingers on the top of the desk.

"And I doubt," continued the Senior Partner with his pleasant smile, "if there are many mines that yield jewels the size of ostrich eggs."

Cyrus Alton's eyes, in a dreamy way, were fixed upon the stone. "Couldn't this have come from some other planet?"

"Possibly, as a meteorite. But precious stones have not the habit of coming from that direction. However, nothing concerning astronomy can surprise us. Might I ask where you found it, Mr. Alton?"

Mr. Alton hesitated. As he drew a hand across his forehead the Senior Partner and his nephew noticed a hole in the faded and shiny coat sleeve; also that the linen cuff with its frayed edges had no fastenings. William's silent guess was correct. "The poor chap has had to sell his cuff buttons."

"If you don't mind, sir, I would rather not answer that question just at present."

"Certainly. Of course not! Excuse my asking."

"I am the one to apologize, sir. It is a most natural question, and I will answer it later."

"Of course, Mr. Alton, you understand my asking that question. The answer might give us light that would solve the riddle. If, for instance, you found it among broken fragments in a glass factory, we might be prejudiced regarding its ancestry."

"No. It was many miles from any factory."

"On the other hand, if unearthed in a diamond mine, or discovered on the forehead of a Hindoo god it's claim to distinction would be more clearly defined."

"Yes, I suppose so. But I thought an expert might judge the value of a stone without knowing its history."

"Certainly, certainly. But sometimes a ray of light on a doubtful subject facilitates a decision. If this majestic door knob, fragment of a balustrade, pendant to a chandelier, or whatever its original purpose—if this object is a diamond, Mr. Alton, it means a fortune to its owner. And I sincerely wish it were a diamond."

"But you know it isn't?"

"I don't say that; but no lapidary would ever cut a diamond as this is cut." Then, with a friendly smile as he handed it back to its owner, "If William here, or anybody else should offer you real money for it——"

"You advise me to take it."

The Senior Partner smiled and nodded. Cyrus Alton rose. "I thank you sincerely, sir, for this interview and for your opinion on my bogus gem." The Senior Partner also rose, and in shaking hands laid his other hand on the visitor's shoulder. "It may console you, Mr. Alton, to know that you are not the first person—nor the hundredth, for that matter—to be undeceived here in this office. The brightest hopes, especially with would-be pearls and diamonds, often vanish even more swiftly than they come."

While the smiling, leisurely mouth of Cyrus was getting ready to reply, a door opened, and a man entered. It was a short, stout man with fierce black eyebrows, black eyes and a heavy black beard, all in striking contrast to the whitest and baldest of heads.

"Ah, Mr. Bressani!" exclaimed the Senior Partner. "You are just the man!" After presenting Mr. Bressani to the visitor he said: "Give us the truth about this stone. What is it?" And he took the stone from Cyrus and handed it to the new arrival.

Now Mr. Bressani was more than an expert. His instinct in the matter of gems was abnormal. It was something more than instinct. It was a singular, innate sense; one of those unexplained faculties that enables its possessor to judge offhand, with certainty and precision, where others must weigh and reason. In important matters he was sought by jewelers. And there was no recorded case in which he had been deceived.

Now, as he held the doubtful object in his fat, white fingers, he suspected from the smile on the face of the Senior Partner that a joke was in the air. When he saw what was in his hand—apparently a piece of greenish glass—he raised his heavy black eyebrows, and, with a sidelong glance, studied the faces of the three men, one after another, to make sure they were not laughing at him. Nephew William smiled but shook his head. "No, we are serious. Tell us what you think."

Still doubtful, Mr. Bressani held it nearer his eye, turned it over in his large, baby fingers, moved it slowly up and down, evidently guessing its weight, and slowly passed a thumb over its surface. Then, as if surprised, he stepped hastily to the window and held it between his eyes and the light. Wheeling about, his eyebrows darted up in surprise. These eyebrows, thick and heavy, flew heavenward so swiftly and they traveled so far that they seemed to pull upon his big black eyes to twice their usual size and roundness. These astonished orbs he rolled toward the three men as if startled by a miracle. They proclaimed a bewildering, overwhelming astonishment that his half-open lips could not express.

"Why, it's a diamond!"

The Senior Partner rose and moved toward him. "Are you sure?"

But Mr. Bressani did not reply. Lost in wonder, apparently unconscious of his surroundings, he turned the object over and over, in every light, and at every angle. "Extraordinary!" he murmured. "Extraordinary! It doesn't seem possible."

"But are you sure?" repeated the Senior Partner.

"Absolutely."

"But who ever saw such a diamond?"

"Nobody! Nobody! It's incredible—miraculous—inconceivable. There never was such a thing!"

"Just what I have been saying," from the Senior Partner. "Nobody would ever cut a diamond in that shape. And look at the size of it! And the color!"

"Yes, yes! It's hard to believe!"

"But you do believe it?"

The bushy eyebrows went up, then down, with a shrug of shoulders. "Believe it? I know it! What do you think it is, glass?"

"Well—er—yes, to be honest. I didn't know what else it could be. No human being ever saw a diamond of those dimensions."

"We are seeing it now. But whose is it?"

"It belongs to Mr. Alton."

"I congratulate you, Mr. Alton. You possess the most amazing diamond in history or fiction."

Cyrus bowed. "Then it is the largest you have ever seen?"

"Twice over. The famous Cullinan stone, the largest yet discovered, was about half this size."

"Let's weigh it," said William.

The expert placed it on the little scales that stood on the top of the Senior Partner's desk. The three men waited in silence for the verdict. After a close scrutiny of the scales Mr. Bressani straightened up, turned toward the three pairs of eyes—all fixed intently on his own—and exclaimed:

"Really—it is hard to believe!"

"How much?" came, in the same breath, from the Senior Partner and his nephew.

"Seventy-one hundred carats!"

The nephew laughed nervously. "Why—there never was such a diamond!"

The Senior Partner frowned. "Impossible!"

Mr. Bressani's hand trembled slightly, as he lifted the stone from the scales and again held it to the light. "Yes—yes—it does seem impossible!"

"But nobody ever saw such a diamond!" was again announced by William.

"Never!" from Mr. Bressani.

"How much did the Cullinan weigh?" William asked.

"About three thousand and thirty carats in the rough—about a pound and three-quarters. It was cut into three large stones and several smaller ones. Two of these stones are the largest brilliants in existence."

"But, are you sure, Bressani," said the Senior Partner, "absolutely sure that it is a diamond?"

Mr. Bressani smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and with a gesture of both hands, palms out, replied, slowly:

"I am not a rich man, but whatever property I possess, and whatever I can borrow up to a million dollars I would gladly give to Mr. Alton if I might own this stone."

Cyrus Alton's eyes opened wider. "A million dollars?"

"Easily. You see, it will cut to four or five stones of extraordinary size, and—unless I am much mistaken—of perfect purity. Also, the color—this lovely, delicate, apple-green tint is almost unknown. The only diamond of this color in the world, of any importance, is the famous Dresden Green, one of the crown jewels of Saxony."

"Is this much larger," inquired Cyrus, "than that Dresden diamond?"

"Many times larger."

"And much larger than any of the famous diamonds?"

"Yes, indeed! Much, much, very much larger. No comparison, in fact. Why, Mr. Alton, if this were cut to one stone, half its present size—as a rough guess—it would be over three thousand carats."

Nephew William gasped. "Three thousand carats! Why, there's nothing like it! It would be the most famous stone in the world!"

"No doubt about that," said Mr. Bressani.

"How much is the Great Mogul?" asked William.

"Less than two hundred carats."

"And the Koh-i-noor?"

"One hundred and eight."

"And the Star of the South?"

"About a hundred and twenty-seven carats."

"Did you ever see the Hope diamond?"

"Yes; forty-five carats. Almost circular in shape; sold for eighteen thousand pounds. But it is believed—at least there is a story—that it brings bad luck to its owners."

"It is blue, isn't it?"

"Yes, blue, and a good color, but not so beautiful nor so rare, as this shade of green. This is a wonder." And as he spoke he turned the stone in every light. "It's a marvelous thing. Marvelous! Almost unbelievable!"

"Can you tell me," said Cyrus, "about how much it is worth?"

Mr. Bressani shrugged his shoulders: "Anything."

"You mean," said the Senior Partner, "it would be impossible to guess, even approximately, at its value?"

"Yes. For you know the value of diamonds is speculative—depending on many conditions; size, shape, purity, color—and how they cut. The Victoria—one hundred and eighty carats—was sold for four hundred thousand pounds. But diamonds were rarer then. This, when properly cut into the right number of stones, would bring more than three million dollars."

William, in his enthusiasm, slapped his friend on the back. "Well, old man, you have struck it rich this time."

The calm-eyed Cyrus smiled and nodded.

"Then this diamond of mine," he said, "would be ten times bigger than the Koh-i-noor or any of those other stones?"

"Yes, sir."

"Isn't there a famous Sancy diamond?"

"Oh, yes. But that weighed only fifty-three carats. The Sancy diamond was famous more from its unusual history than from its size."

"What was its history, Bressani?" said the Senior Partner. "I never heard it."

"Well, it belonged to Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, who was wearing it in his hat at the battle of Nancy, the day he was killed. A Swiss soldier found it and sold it to a clergyman for a gulden; about forty cents. Then it came into possession of Anton, King of Portugal, who sold it for 100,000 Francs. Soon afterwards it became the property of a French gentleman named Sancy. A descendant of this Sancy was sent by Henry III as ambassador to Soluere and the King required the diamond as a pledge. The servant who was carrying it to the King was attacked by robbers and murdered, but before dying he swallowed the diamond. His master, knowing his devotion, had the body opened and found the diamond in his stomach."

"And where is it now?" asked Cyrus.

"It was bought by a Russian nobleman in 1835, for half a million rubles; about four hundred thousand dollars."

"Jove!" exclaimed William. "Some difference in price between forty cents and four hundred thousand dollars!"

"And how much bigger," asked William, "is this than the Sancy?"

"That weighed fifty-three carats. This, when cut, would weigh about three thousand."

"Jove! Sixty times as much! Would it be worth sixty times four hundred thousand dollars? That would be about twenty-four million dollars."

Mr. Bressani smiled and shook his head. "Times were different then—and to-day there are more diamonds."

"I suppose many of the famous jewels," said William, "if they could speak, might tell us stories as surprising as the Sancy's."

Then Cyrus Alton, in a low voice, addressing nobody in particular, said: "It would be worth the price of this diamond to know its history."

The Bressani eyebrows went up—high up—and then far down. And beneath the frown the fierce eyes looked eagerly toward the speaker. "Has it a remarkable history, Mr. Alton?"

Cyrus smiled, slowly and somewhat sadly, and gently shook his head. "I wish I knew. I would almost give the diamond's price to know its story—much as I need the money."

"Do you know nothing of its history?"

"Nothing. I only know that if we could see what that stone has seen we should enter a new field of knowledge. It would throw light upon a world of unknown things, earlier than human history."

In silence the jewelers regarded the speaker, as if waiting for some explanation of his words.

Mr. Bressani's eyebrows had shot up to the highest attitude yet attained. In a low voice, but in a tone that showed the liveliest curiosity, he asked, "Just what do you mean, Mr. Alton?"

"I mean the story of this diamond's country would be a story so overwhelming, so far beyond us, so complete and final in its stupendous tragedy that our own human drama would seem a trifling comedy."

These words were spoken in a calm but earnest manner, and they impressed the listeners. A silence followed. Then Mr. Bressani asked: "What is this diamond's country?"

Cyrus hesitated. He knew that if he told the truth it would appear incredible to his hearers—like a fairy tale for children: that he would be regarded either as a fool, to be pitied, or as a willful liar. While he hesitated the Senior Partner came to his rescue.

"Mr. Alton has already informed us that he has reasons for not telling where he found it."

Mr. Bressani's enthusiasm, however,—and his curiosity—were far too strong for accepting so easy a defeat. "But what part of the world? He can tell us that."

"As a matter of fact," said Cyrus, "I don't know, myself, the name of that particular country."

Again the bushy Bressani eyebrows sailed aloft, then dropped and beetled over the fierce black eyes. "You don't know in what country you were when you found it—or bought it?"

"I am not sure that it has a name."

"A most unusual country!"

"Yes, it certainly is;—most unusual."

Nephew William laughed. "And it must be a long way off, Cyrus."

"It is."

"And pretty small, if it has no name."

"No, not so small. But its name was long ago forgotten. There are no survivors to remember it."

"But you can tell us," said Mr. Bressani, "whether it is North of here, or East, or West, or South."

"Why—er—really, I couldn't tell you even that. Nobody could."

"Perhaps it's beneath us, or above"; and in the Senior Partner's tone was a suggestion of irony.

Cyrus ignored the tone and answered pleasantly: "I am not trying to deceive, or to mislead you in any way, but it really is a journey in which points of the compass are no guides whatever."

On the faces of the three jewelers came three involuntary frowns.

"You are certainly having fun with us, Cyrus," said William.

"No, not at all. But, you see, a compass would be useless where there is no such thing as North and South."

"No such thing as North and South!"

"No. Nor East and West. The needle would lose its bearings. It wouldn't know where to point."

"Oh, come now! Is that a joke? Are we to laugh at it?"

Cyrus smiled. "I should not blame you for laughing—but it is not a joke. I am telling the truth."

"You mean to say, I suppose, that you had such bad weather—electrical storms, perhaps,—that the needle couldn't work."

"No, there was no weather at all."

"You mean no bad weather?"

"Nor good weather, either."

With some impatience William demanded: "Now just what do you mean, Cyrus?"

"I mean, that in going and coming, there was no such thing as wind nor rain, nor sunshine. It was all twilight—a dusk that was almost darkness. It was a trackless, uncharted voyage. And not a shore to touch at."

"Then you crossed an ocean? It was all by sea?"

"No. There was no sea—no water anywhere."

This time William made no effort to hide his annoyance. He merely whistled, and walked away, toward the window.

"I don't blame you, Billy, for being enraged," and Cyrus also stood up. "But on my honor, I am telling you the truth. And I am willing to tell you anything except the exact location. Later on you will understand my reasons for being so secretive."

"Perhaps you can tell us," said Mr. Bressani, "in what surroundings you found it: whether under ground or above."

"Above. Just lying on the ground."

"My own guess," said William, "from its being already cut, is that some oriental chap either gave it to you or sold it."

"No, I found it, entirely by accident—among some ruins."

Mr. Bressani's eyebrows again went up. "Ruins of what?"

"Of an ancient building—a very, very ancient building."

"But covered with earth, I suppose, and overgrown with vines."

"No. Not a trace of vegetation anywhere in sight."

"It must be a melancholy place."

"It is."

"But once a city?"

"I think so."

"The ruins of Palmyra!" exclaimed Mr. Bressani. "They are now a sandy waste."

"No; many thousands of miles from Palmyra."

"Many thousands of miles! That means a long distance."

"It is a long distance."

"Then it can't be any part of Asia, or even India?"

"No, sir."

"Africa, perhaps?"

"No."

"A South American diamond?"

"No."

As Mr. Bressani's ferocious, black eyebrows settled down over his eyes the Senior Partner laughed. "This reminds me of the game of twenty questions. And you are surely the victor, Mr. Alton."

But Mr. Bressani was too much in earnest to think of jokes or games. "You say these ruins are very old?"

"Yes, sir."

"How old? Greek or Roman, perhaps?"

"Older than human history."

Again the three listeners frowned. With a shade of sarcasm the Senior Partner addressed his nephew: "Mr. Alton has a poet's fancy."

Cyrus understood, but his face showed no annoyance. Smilingly he said, "You will get more digestible answers, perhaps, if you don't ask me where I found it. The whole adventure is incredible. If I told you the truth you would not believe me."

"Try us," said William.

The Senior Partner waved his hand in apology. "Please don't think we doubt your word, Mr. Alton. But when you say older than human history you are speaking figuratively, as it were."

"No, sir. I am speaking literally. It is the belief of scientists that millions of years have passed since any changes have occurred in that—in that—territory."

"Millions of years!"

"Yes, sir. It is somewhat a matter of geology. And a geological period, you know, is still young at a million years."

The Senior Partner nodded politely. "Yes—very true. But, as diamonds are found in so few places perhaps you will tell us, just to gratify a natural curiosity, what kind of a region you have discovered—the general nature of the country."

"The nature of the country?" Cyrus Alton repeated. Then, lowering his eyes, as if better to recall the scene, he hesitated for a moment. "The nature of the country," he again repeated, and his manner became serious. "No tree, nor bush, nor blade of grass is there; no living thing of any kind: no birds—nor air to fly in;—not a drop of water. The surface of the earth—no, not earth for there is no earth—is stone—and ashes. 'Tis a cinder—the mummy of a world: an unending necropolis. Once it was thickly populated. Now it is the Land of Death, and deader than Death itself. Not even a memory is there, for those who might remember have been dead uncounted ages. They themselves are long since forgotten."

On the faces of his little audience Cyrus saw a mild bewilderment—and curiosity.

"You say we have all heard of this country?" asked the Senior Partner.

"Yes, and you have seen it—from a distance."

"Are you sure," said William, "that we have all seen it?"

"Yes, absolutely sure."

"And we have probably been there?"

"No—I think not."

"Then, how could we see it?—from a railway train—or from a steamship?"

Cyrus smiled. "Yes, you could see it that way—if you wished."

"But how do you know we have never been there?"

"I don't."

"You only think it."

"Yes, I only think it. You may have been there. I am quite sure, however, that you have not."

"But why so sure, Cyrus? You have been there yourself."

"Yes."

"And what man has done man can do."

"Yes, sometimes, but not always, Billy. Only one man has eaten, for instance, a certain huckleberry. And, as a rule, only one man marries his own particular girl. You, for instance, have seen the top of Trinity spire, but you have never been there."

"You may as well say I have seen the moon, but never been there."

Cyrus laughed, quite a hearty little laugh, as if thoroughly amused. "Well I do say it. And it's true, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it has no relation to the argument."

"Why not? I am merely proving my statement, that you have seen interesting places which you have never visited. Either Trinity spire or the moon might hold this diamond."

"But Trinity spire does not fit your description of the country."

Again Cyrus seemed amused. "But the moon fits it."

William laughed. "Well, Cyrus, you are just the same boy in an argument that you were at school. And how mad I used to get! But this mysterious land that you are concealing so successfully, the land we have all seen but never touched—or even heard about, apparently—must be a God-forsaken district. Is it a desert—like Sahara, for instance?"

"No, quite different. This is rock, with plains of lava from volcanic mountains and everywhere, in all directions, dust and ashes: the dried bones of its own past—whatever it was. The whole surface of the country seems upheaved and torn, all on a gigantic scale, as if it was baked too much, then split and sundered in the cooling. A fantastic, solemn region."

"Well, by Jove!" said William, at last, "I still maintain that I have never seen the place—nor anything like it."

"I said from a distance."

"Must have been a mighty long distance."

"It was."

"And a mighty unusual country!"

"It is. Scattered about are high mountains, once volcanoes. And in the craters of these old volcanoes some of them many miles across, I saw the ruins of cities. There must be hundreds of these mountains, and hundreds of ruined cities."

"Then you traveled over the whole country."

"No, indeed! But I looked down on it as I approached, and could take in a vast area."

William straightened up, and his eyes opened wider. "Oho! Then you went there in an air-ship!"

Cyrus nodded.

"That accounts for no water on the voyage, and all that other stuff you gave us."

Again Cyrus nodded. And, with a broad smile of amusement: "It might also account for Trinity spire and the moon."

But his audience was too much in earnest to be thwarted by jokes. "Yes, yes!" said Mr. Bressani. "That explains much that you have said. Please continue."

William, however, with a frown, leaned back against the desk. "Cyrus, I still believe you are lying to us."

"No, truly I am not. I don't pretend to give you the whole truth, but what I do tell you is the truth and nothing else."

"Go on, Mr. Alton," said the Senior Partner. "We interrupted you. It certainly is an amazing country."

Cyrus continued. "The whole country is cracked and broken with chasms. From one volcano caÑons radiate in all directions. They are miles in width, and they seem bottomless. And even in these caÑons, on projecting ledges, are the ruins of cities."

"But why should they build their cities in those sunless chasms?"

"My belief is that the moisture evaporated, then the surface of all that country became so unbearably hot—with no atmosphere as protection from the sun's rays—that the inhabitants were driven to the caÑons."

"What a life! No wonder they all died!"

"That portion of the universe," said Cyrus, "is the desolation of desolation, the tragedy of tragedies. It is a world of ashes. And over everything an awful silence, a silence that frightens you. The stillness of death, compared to it, is a merry waltz."

"How did you happen to find this country?"

"I had heard of it. You all know about it in a general way, as I have already said. But I tried to get there and happened to succeed."

William shook his head. "Sorry to contradict you, Cyrus, but I never heard of such a place."

Cyrus laughed. "Oh, yes, you have! Excuse me, but you have all read about it, and seen many pictures of it."

Mr. Bressani took up the diamond. As he caressed the glistening marvel he asked: "Do other people know of these ruins?"

"I think not."

"You have never heard of any one else who has been there?"

"Never."

"Is the district difficult to reach?"

"Very—almost impossible. In fact the trip is so long and risky that you need have no fear of other explorers. I tell you this merely that you may know the chances are small of the market being flooded with diamonds—at least from that quarter. Nobody else will try it. You may be sure of that. The diamonds are there, however, and plenty of them."

"Plenty of them!"

"Plenty—by the cart-load."

William whistled. And the two older men whistled—in spirit—and raised their eyebrows. With the Bressani eyebrows still in the air their owner inquired: "You say this was lying on the top of the ground?"

"Yes; among other fragments."

"Fragments of what?"

For a moment the visitor closed his eyes. "That is hard to answer. I was there at dusk. The light was peculiar, and uncertain—and changing. I should say there were fragments of cups and vases, of carved capitals, scraps of metal that might be architectural ornaments, all mingled with blocks of some white material, perhaps marble, or alabaster. And all finely carved."

"These things were scattered about the ground?"

"Scattered about, but not literally on the ground. Many were lying on a pavement of different colored stones—the floor of a building I should say. The outer walls and several columns were still standing."

"It might have been a palace, a temple, a forum,—almost anything of size and importance."

"You know nothing of the history of those people, of their manners and customs?"

"Nothing, whatever."

"Where could I find out? That is, of course, if we had your permission."

"Nowhere. Nobody knows. It is all forgotten—long ago forgotten—with no records, no memories—not even a tradition."

There was a silence. Cyrus knew that his hearers were having more or less difficulty in digesting his statements. However, he smiled pleasantly, as he said: "My sympathies are with you, gentlemen, and my thanks for your courteous reception of my absurd story. But there is one thing I do know about these people. Although their buildings were often as high as ours, I know their legs were shorter. All their stone steps, in every case, had risers about half the size of ours."

"Ah! Then they were a race of pigmies."

"I should think so, and with long arms and very short legs. They were evidently strong on sculpture, as there are fragments of statues, heads, bas reliefs, monuments, etc., all scattered about. And the people represented are very much like ourselves, in some ways."

"WITH LONG ARMS AND VERY SHORT LEGS"—Page 216